What's Left Unsaid
by rslhilson
Summary: Set during "Wilson": House struggles emotionally as Wilson undergoes surgery. Oneshot; rated T for language. H/W friendship  with slashy undertones!


_What's Left Unsaid_

* * *

_The operation is in two hours. I'd like you to be there._

…_No._

Of all the stunts Wilson had pulled in the past, this one really took the cake.

Pushing him away after Amber's death was one thing. House had dealt with that. It hadn't been easy, but he'd known that Wilson wouldn't – couldn't – stay away forever.

But donating his liver to a self-important jerk who probably wouldn't even send him a fucking Christmas card when it was all over? Only a moron like Wilson would get himself into something like this.

"_I'm Jewish, remember?" _he heard Wilson reply in his head, and House rolled his eyes at the imaginary voice. "Don't be an idiot," he mumbled back.

This was just great. Wilson wasn't even dead yet, and his brain was already generating auditory hallucinations.

_What? Why?_

_Because if you die…_

He heard the door open, and he glanced up to see Cuddy.

He waited for her to say something. Anything. He waited for her to shout, to yell, to scream. Wasn't that her job? To bitch at him every time he lied and cheated and stole and refused to stay with his best friend through surgery? It drove him fucking nuts, but for the first time in his life, he found himself actually hoping that she would open her mouth and let loose – anything to break the silence, to give him something to yell back about.

But instead, she only stared at him, dark eyes gleaming in disappointment.

Finally, she took a deep breath. "You're here," she murmured.

He knew what she meant. _You're here instead of with him, you fucking bastard._ As if he didn't already know that.

But there was something about the look in her eyes, something about the way she spoke, that made House's stomach tighten as the reality of reality began to hit him.

"Now?" he asked quietly.

"You've got a few minutes," she replied, and jumped out of his way as he darted out the door.

…_I'm alone._

He burst into the viewing chamber, leg burning, taking in the scene below and searching for a sign that he wasn't too late.

Brown eyes found his blue ones through the glass, and the tight grip on his cane relaxed in relief. He heard Wilson's voice in his head again, softer this time.

"_You came."_

"_Got bored," _he thought back. _"Better not die on me, or I'll kill you."_

"_Pretty sure you can't kill me if I'm dead."_

The mask was placed over Wilson's mouth and nose, and House held his breath. He counted the seconds to himself, watching as the brown pools that held his gaze slowly began to close.

"_I'm glad you're here_," imaginary Wilson said.

He stared rigidly down through the glass as the operation commenced, not replying. There were a lot of things he could've said, should've said, and as the scalpels began to cut into Wilson's flesh, he felt the first pangs of guilt and regret surge through his chest. But he couldn't even bring himself to say "I love you" to imaginary Wilson, and that's just the way life was.

* * *

He'd always hated waiting.

"_Patience is a virtue, House."_

"_Jesus. You're more annoying as a hallucination than you are in real life."_

"_I try."_

He stared at Wilson's form on the bed, body still except for the rise and fall of his chest. He took in the white sheets, the gray hospital gown, the tubes providing fluids and oxygen. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat with a patient.

"_If there's something you want to say to me, just say it."_

"_I thought I was talking to fake Wilson, not my subconscious."_

"_I already play the role of your conscience in real life, so why not__ infiltrate your sub__conscious?"_

"Y_ou'd better stay alive to play my conscience, you big moron."_

He hated that everyone was trying to be all helpful and caring – bringing him coffee and food, asking him if he was okay, and all of that idiotic crap.

He wasn't okay, but he didn't say that. He also didn't say that he didn't want coffee or food unless it was Wilson who bought it for him. If Wilson died, he decided, he'd starve himself. Or at the very least, he'd never eat lunch again. It was only fair.

"_They're only trying to help."_

"_You want to help me? Wake the fuck up already. Been waiting a long time here."_

He checked and re-checked the vitals on the monitors, the IV drip, the flow of oxygen. _Wake up, wake up, wake up._

Eyelids fluttered. A head turned. House froze.

Sleepy brown eyes groggily began to focus.

"Hey," Wilson whispered hoarsely.

Relief poured through House like a flood, but he expertly maintained his composure and nodded calmly towards the oncologist. "Hey yourself. How're you feeling?"

"Okay," came the reply, but the subsequent wince and hand grasping his abdomen made House cringe.

"How bad?"

"It's fine," Wilson shakily assured him, slowly taking a deep breath to steady himself against the pain. "How's Tucker?"

Now House wanted to take his cane and hit him. Hard. "You just woke up from major surgery, and you're asking after the jerk who made you go through it?"

"Think of it as letting me know that it wasn't all for nothing."

"He's fine," House snapped. "Boy Wonder Oncologist saves the day – again. Happy?"

Wilson's eyebrows scrunched in annoyance. "House – "

"You have no idea what I just went through," House hissed, and then immediately looked away. He'd already said too much.

They were quiet for a while, House staring at the tip of his cane.

"I thought you weren't going to be there," Wilson finally said, and House raised his gaze.

"Changed my mind."

Wilson paused, considering. "Why?"

It always came down to this – a fork in the road, two paths diverged in a wood, yadda yadda yadda. His head churned, options swarming around the tip of his tongue.

"I…Cuddy made me," he finally muttered. Everybody lies; he was no exception.

He didn't fail to notice the slight slump of Wilson's shoulders, but then the grateful smile that spread across the oncologist's face shattered the pieces of House's already-broken heart.

"It's still nice that you came," Wilson said, and House could only nod back, staring at the tip of his cane again. He pushed away the muddled thoughts, the crushed dreams, the three tiny words that he would never say.

"When do you think they'll let me into a private room?" Wilson asked.

"Gotta get Cuddy to sign off on it. My breast viewing of the day is overdue, anyway."

He began to walk away, but Wilson's voice brought him back. "House?"

He turned, concerned.

"Thank you. For changing your mind."

"...Yeah," House finally replied, and limped out of the room.

Forks in the road, diverging paths, moments of truth that would never be realized.

"_If there's something you want to say to me, just say it."_

"…_I think I love you, Wilson."_


End file.
